


Written in Blood

by Rohirrim_Writer



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Backstory, Based off Tide of Ice and Blood, Bjorgman family, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Breastfeeding, Bulda/Cliff, Childbirth, Cliff is renamed Bjarg, Come Eating, F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, High Fantasy, Hunters & Hunting, Inspired by Fanfiction, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Kristoff's brothers and sisters, Lactation Kink, Ronnieiswriting, Sex, Swords & Sorcery, Wargs, ronniewriting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24010216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rohirrim_Writer/pseuds/Rohirrim_Writer
Summary: Life North of the Winterwoods is unforgiving. Bjarg was not a man asking for forgiveness.Long before Kristoff was born, a father labored in the cold, a lodge was built from earth and stone, and a history became written in blood.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Written in Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RonnieWriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieWriting/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Tide of Ice and Blood (Beta)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23559538) by [RonnieWriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieWriting/pseuds/RonnieWriting). 



> This work is a gift for the amazing Ronniewriting, who's every update is a gift to me. Her writing is an aspiration for me and I am more than happy to show my inspiration but also engage in a world that it is a pleasure to write. 
> 
> Cliff has been renamed Bjarg in this universe. This is the story of the beginnings of the Bjorgman family.

Bjarg’s eyes shot open. It wasn’t the moonlight dancing through the slats in the door that woke him, but something far more sinister. He laid in the warmth of his new wife, reluctant to leave, but such was his call. 

In the dark of the night, the wargs howled, their lonely call echoing through the valleys and distant fjord. Lungs, large enough to dwarf a man’s arm, produced the eerie sound. He rose from his bed, hand going over to feel the life in his woman’s belly, before bracing himself against the cold. 

He stoked the fire in the hearth, throwing coals onto the glowing embers, to warm his wife while he was away. Then he grabbed his cloak, the warmth his wife had gifted him, to take with him into the unforgiving landscape. Bjarg was not a man asking for forgiveness. 

He lit a torch against the flames of his making. Armed with a spear he’d learned to wield when he was little more than a boy, weapon standing larger than he, he set out into the night. Like much that he carried with him, the spear was a legacy, his only tie to his blood. Over generations, details had been added, crafted into the make. When Bjarg had become a man he had added his own mark, the antlers of a stag wreathed by rosebay. The spear was not for the hunt, he took his bow and arrow for that. 

He stepped into the night, eyes scanning the dark for the reflection of eyes, before trudging into the snow. He left footprints, harsh and deep, a blight across the landscape. When he returned snow hare slung over his shoulder, his footprints were wiped clean. 

He had already gutted what he could, far from the fragile safety of his threshold, to keep the glowing eyes and glinting teeth away. His wife waited for him, beside the hearth weaving reeds into a bassinet. She set it aside to take the beast from him. They have precious little daylight, and Bjarg uses it to work the logs that will become a new door, a door to withstand the brutal winds and the beast that might come scratching and clawing. 

He used what little daylight they had left to make love to his wife under the artic sun. When they lay naked and spent on the furs, Bulda began her chant. Every night his wife moved through the shelter he’d built with his two hands, hewn from stone and logs-dragged from the treeline. She carried smoking herbs along the walls to their threshold. As she sang the words, trailed the smoke from floor to ceiling. It swirled around the swell of her stomach in tendrils like moss. When she came back to bed, he kissed it from her skin. 

There was a saying that in the North, that babies always came after a long winter. In the same way a storm would come after a ring around the moon. One always led to the other. Bjarg had seen the tale ring true time and time again in his youth. Unlike the kingdoms to the South, their children grew hearty and strong. He’d heard tell of the dangers that befell wee babes in Aren Fell. 

Now, a man, Bjarg knew the embrace of a woman could ward off even the deepest of colds. He fell into Bulda’s arms again and again, as much as she would have him, to know that fire. He blessed her strong bones and anointed her wide hips. Spoke prayers into her belly and cleansed her feet. 

She came to him like a goddess, when they’d been bound, and like a goddess she worked by his side. Her belly, now ripe with child, made her look all the more so. He traced each new line upon her body with unholy hands, her fertility and power, written on her skin. 

He began to bring in larger prey, beasts that take hours to prepare, to freeze and dry the meat, to cut and preserve in jars of salts. They built their stores together to prepare for the wee one, with even a little extra still, at Bulda’s urgings. The day he finished the door, Bulda spent hours by the light of a tallow candle carving runes into the ancient pine. He thinks he saw her blood in the grains the next morning when he left for the hunt, but he couldn’t be sure.

There was a sound like nothing he’d heard before as he came down from the drifts. It carried with it the memories of brothers and sisters gone in the dark, never to return, the snow untouched in the morning as ever before. 

His own handprint of blood joined his wife’s upon the entrance that day as he shouldered his way inside. His wife, his beautiful wife, was laid bare on the furs of their consummation, held down by a grayed woman as she cut runes into her fair skin. 

Like she was nothing more than the logs of their home. 

He boiled with rage, near blind with it. 

The air smelled different, like the sickly sweet smell of death, of flesh that had turned. It came from tendrils of smoke and bowls of oils and his _wife_. 

“ **Be calm, young one.** ” The woman did not look to him when she spoke. 

“ **Remove your hands from her at once or I will cut them from your body and you will die where you stand.** ” In some part of him that wasn’t blind with rage he knew that this Gotthi was saving his Bulda’s life, but he would not let her score her like a beast, flay her open like a sacrifice, on the altar of the Gods. He had seen her feed hare’s hearts to babe’s. He was not convinced this woman knew a God. 

“ **Then she will surely die where she lay.** ” He put aside his weapons at her words. 

He stepped ever closer to his wife. He could see by the light of the hearth where they made their meals that her stomach twisted and roiled like the sea in a storm. Each contraction sent her into the arms of the old woman, who held her steady, until it had passed. 

Her forehead gleamed with sweat, which rolled down her body in great droplets. 

“ **She will need water.** ” The room filled with the sounds of fire crackling and the heavy breaths of his love once again as he was pulled from the spell of her sacrifice. 

He set to warming the ice over the fire. It’s a fire larger than any they’ve had before. The woman had brought logs, a luxury to burn, and the scent of pine assaulted him when he sat too close. 

He fed her sips of water, which she drank from greedily, and the wrinkled woman showed him how to hold her hips when the contractions came. 

When his son came, he felt the beat of a thousand drums in his chest as he was placed onto his wife’s waiting chest. He still bore her blood and the connection that draws them together. His wife took his hand and pierced it, she gathered the blood there, and consecrated their sun with their blood, mingled together. She imparted life into their home, life that came from blood, and just as she did so to the walls he created, so did she do so to the babes he created too. 

He feared he would lose her, in the birth of his second child, perhaps she was the reason Bulda had been so insistent they needed yet more to see them through the shortened days. Bjarg’s heart breaks for it and he thinks he might never bear them children again until his daughter cried quietly in his arms. 

They mark her too, a solemn commitment of life to life. They became his cherished purpose. They call them Jarri and Livili. Jarri that the God’s will raise up and Livili the noble one. They are named after their tie to their mother is cut. The remains of the womb are taken to dry with the hides. 

Bjarg had stripped to his uncover his chest in the heat of the room, and now he lay, chest to back with his wife, their children in her arms, and watched as they nursed at her breast. 

She was tired and worn. It was the first time his wife had felt weak in his hands. Still, she sang to them. When the babes slept, she laid them in their bassinet together and continued her song, as she had everyday since they began to grow within her belly. 

“ **The wolf is howling in the forest of the night**

**He wants to, but cannot sleep**

**The hunger is scratching his wolfen stomach**

**And it’s cold in his burrow**

**Wolf, wolf, don’t you come here**

**I will never let you take my child** ”

The babes grew quickly, at his wife’s breast. Before long they had learned to crawl. He would be sitting by the fire, whittling them trinkets of hares and caribou, and they would tumble over his feet. 

When they learned to pull themselves up to look at the work in his lap, he began to work on their bows. He worked the wood for long hours, steaming it over the fire, and bending it into shape. 

The day they learned to walk they hung on the wall next to his. 

Livili was the one who showed a talent for it, in the end. Her brother seemed more content to collect summer weeds for his mother, still unable to tell the difference between the common plants and the herbs his mother hung from the beams over the hearth. 

They would run to him, on those rare lengthened days, basking in the sunlight under the careful watch of their mother. They would cheer and holler when he brought in large deer, draped across his shoulders like a King’s mantle. 

“ **I thought my husband might never return when he insisted he would bring home a feast or nothing at all.** ” She teased from her tiny tundra garden plot. 

“ **Never, my love.** ” Bjarg grinned across the gate that he’d built to keep the hares out. 

“ **If my virile husband can lift such a creature, I have been remiss.** ” She teased and he felt his chest swell with pride and devotion. He had married a woman as strong and determined in appearance as in will. 

“ **He has lifted great logs, and boulders, why should he not be able to lift his expectant wife?** ” Her hand rested against the rise of her swollen belly and he felt a hunger rise in his chest. 

He tossed the creature onto the carving table by the smoke shed before turning once more to face her. 

“ **I will make you another promise, wife.** ” He would never tire of her wanting of him as much as he wanted for her. “ **When the night has come, and the wee ones asleep, and the fire is banked and the air grows cold** .” He took as many steps forward as he could, until he was pressed against the deadfall fence, the twigs creaking in protest against his weight. “ **I will hold you above me, and drive you against me, and you will know then what kind of husband you possess.** ” 

Bulda grinned at him, full of fierce challenge he wouldn’t taste until his promise was fulfilled. 

He did not let the fire abate that night, he stayed up well into the wee hours, holding his wife’s hips as she seated herself above him. She drew herself up, powerful thighs flexing under his hands, to sink herself back down upon him. 

It was an ancient dance and tonight she led him in it. He lay beneath her until the hair on his chest matted with sweat and the tangle of her fingers. He could feel the rune scars on her palms, drag against his skin, and her blunt nails scratch along the edges of his reddened nipples. 

He sat up and like a mountain he cast his shadow over her. His arms are almost large enough to hold her, even in her condition. He held her, encouraging her to lean back into his strong hands. He would show her how he could hold her up. He held their very lives upon his shoulders by day and the love of a good woman by night. 

Her own breasts were flushed, stretched, and full. With her back as arched as the position and her own limits allowed he could reach forward and chase her hardened nipples with his tongue. He drank freely from her breast as he brought his hand between them to bring her to completion. 

She had taught him in this as she had some many other things. Taught him the pleasure of his fingers buried in her cunt, taught him the milk at her breast need not just be for their children, taught him to take her like the beasts of the wild and like a man in supplication. 

So now, with her ass upon his thighs, unmoving, he brought her to her peak. She went limp within his arms and he gently lay her back against the furs. She shuddered as it brushed her bare skin and it travelled through her into him. 

He pulled his cock from her, bringing it over her belly, to pour his release upon it. He groaned it to the fire, to the night sky, to the wolves. She reached between them to gather it on her fingers and brought them to her mouth. The sight had shocked him as a younger man, but now it made his arms weak and his eyelashes flutter. He brought himself down to taste it off her lips. 

His wife the witch. His diviner. She reached between them to rub his remaining seed into her skin, whispering a chant to their unborn. 

“ **You are my balm, my love.** ” She whispered. 

Maarja was born late. He worked the traps closest to the lodge for fear Bulda would go into labor without him once again. He needn’t have feared. When the day arrived, Yelena arrived at their door as if conjured there. 

When he left to check the traps the next day, leaving behind a wife with a babe at her breast, he did so with an uneasy prickling against the hair of his back. He searched the horizons for glowing eyes, but none showed themselves. The feeling did not leave, even as he brought home his kill. He trudged through the snow and dark until he came over the rise. 

There, up on his door was the great paw of a Warg, cut from its body, which lay beneath. 

“ **Wife! My wife, where are you? Where are my children? Where are the ones I love?** ” He roared into the quiet dawn.

The door to their lodge opened, swinging wide to show his family huddled together, under the drip of the Warg’s paw staked above the door. 

“We are here, my mountain. We are here.” He could not step to them, could not walk past the beast that lay between them without driving his spear deep into its heart. When it was done he fell into her arms, fell to his knees, until they all became one mass, hearts beating together.

“ **I will die before I let a beast fall upon you again.** ” He swore with vemenance. 

That night, only after the children had been put to bed and Bjarg had spent the day .skinning and burning the Warg, did his wife tell him how such a thing befell them. 

The umbilical chord hung to dry, along with the tanning hides, imbued with belladonna to treat the failure of the heart during fever. The beast had happened upon it, drawn in by the smell of the blood of the newborn, and eaten it. 

His insides became black as he hissed and died. Bulda stood over him and watched the animal suffer. When there was still a little life yet in him, she took their meat cleaver and hacked off his paw, so she might watch the light leave his eyes. 

That night when she sant to the children, smoke trailing behind her as she imparted it into the walls, the words took new meaning. 

“ **The wolf is howling in the forest of the night**

**He wants to, but cannot sleep**

**The hunger is scratching his wolfen stomach**

**And it’s cold in his burrow**

**Wolf, wolf, don’t you come here**

**I will never let you take my child**

**The wolf is howling in the forest of the night**

**Howling out of hunger and moaning**

**But I will give him a pig tail**

**That’s what the wolfen stomach needs**

**Wolf, wolf, don’t you come here**

**I will never let you take my child.** ”

  
  
  



End file.
